If I Loved You Less
by Your Angel of Music
Summary: It would be so much easier to tell the truth, if only Syed didn't love Christian quite so very much. Set after 28/09/2012 - an attempt to get into Syed's head and explore how his love for Christian affects his current situation.


**Title: **If I Loved You Less**  
Author: **MercuryPheonix (Your Angel Of Music)**  
Rating: **K+**  
Spoilers: **Everything up to 28/09/2012**  
Summary:** It would be so much easier to tell the truth, if only Syed didn't love Christian quite so very much.

**A/N: **This is set directly after the episode of the 28th September, when Christian goes to bed and Syed is left on his own with Danny's business card. Mads mentioned that this quote, as said by Mr Knightley in 'Sense and Sensibility', was perfect for the situation that Syed finds himself in, and I really wanted to take that idea and run with it. I wanted to explore Syed's sense of failure, his self-loathing, how his love for Christian might affect his ability to be honest, his confusion regarding this whole situation, and perhaps set up the head space which will lead to events that we know to be coming. But the overriding sense that I hope comes through this whole thing is just how ardently and deeply Syed loves Christian, Christian loves Syed, and they will never not end up together.

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**If I Loved You Less**

_If I loved you less, I might be able to talk about it more._

Jane Austen ('Sense and Sensibility')

xx

Christian isn't asleep. Syed can hear it in his breaths; they were just too shallow, not quite filling his chest the way they did when he was truly unconscious. The light from the hallway illuminates his figure, curled beneath the duvet with his back to the door – as if he's bracing himself, wrapping himself in his anger, or hurt, or whatever other feeling that Syed feels so guilty about producing.

"Christian?" Syed hovers for a second in the doorway, his hand on the frame as if it is somehow anchoring him to solid certainty. There's a mixture of guilt and secrecy churning in his stomach as he watches the bundle of bedclothes shift ever so slightly. Every breath is familiar, every movement recognisable, each nuance and subtlety seared like a secret language onto his consciousness.

Biting his bottom lip, he moves forward, his hand dropping from the doorframe to bump nervously against his side.

"Christian?"

He wishes it wasn't coming out as a question, but he can't help the almost frightened inflection that smothers the word. All he can think of are the lies – and the money that hangs off his shoulders like invisible weights – and the business card buried in his coat pocket, the number as yet undialled, but the temptation, gripping at his stomach, and he can't work out whether it's because of the money, or the attraction – and that's something else, the attraction; it's been a long time since he was attracted to anyone apart from Christian, and he feels so lost, so helpless; oh god, it was so good just to talk, to not be judged, to not feel as though the words were disappointing anyone –

Christian shifts as Syed settles himself on the edge of the bed, turning onto his back to look up at him; the light from the hall makes his eyes shine, and Syed is hit by a crushing, gut-twisting guilt that he can barely contain. Because whatever feelings he had talking to Danny, they were nothing, _nothing _compared to what he feels for this man, this man who has given him everything and taken his heart as payment, this man who he loves with all his heart, all his soul, and he wishes, how he _wishes_,that he could just summon the courage talk to him.

A hand reaches out from beneath the sheets, the slightly calloused knuckles brushing gently against the ridge of his jaw; it's comfort, Syed knows, comfort and love and reassurance, but all he can think is _I don't deserve this_.

"Hey," the hand opens, fingers now cupping his cheek, a thumb brushing against his lip. Before Christian can say anything else, Syed catches the hand, pushing down so that the fingertips press into his skin, drawing every molecule of warmth and comfort from that touch.

"I'm sorry," for his behaviour with his parents, yes, but for so much more, and Christian doesn't know, can't know. "It's not that I don't care, I do, it's just I can't – I don't know – what I'm doing at the moment and I don't know how to make it better –"

There's a choking sound in the back of his throat, the words wrapping around his vocal chords and refusing to budge any further. His eyes are wet, he can feel them, but somehow he manages to maintain a misty film across his eyes; refusing to let anything fall, refusing to break through the dam, for fear of the damage the flood would cause.

He's being tugged down now, a gentle yet insistent hand on the back of his neck. He goes with the movement, follows willingly like he did almost two and a half years ago, and settles himself – fully clothed and on top of the covers – against the warm expanse of chest.

His arm and leg curls instinctively around Christian, getting caught in the bedsheets (and it's too hot, clothes and duvet and body heat, but he doesn't care) as he plasters himself firmly onto every inch of the bulky frame. Fingers make gentle patterns up his arm – down, then back up, down and up again – before skittering up his neck and combing through his hair.

"I shouldn't have gotten so cross," words are whispered into his scalp, muffled by the thickness of hair, but Syed can feel them vibrating through to his skull. "It's just – it means so much, your parents, that they'd come here – I didn't mean to push it, I should have realised – "

"No," Syed cards his fingers through the smattering of hair on Christian's chest, flattening out his hand so that he can touch as much as skin as he can reach. "It's amazing, how much effort you're putting in with them, even after everything they've done."

"But not at the expense of you," Christian sighs, and Syed feels his press his entire face against the top his head, burying every sense into his hair and inhaling. "I just want you to be okay. And you're not okay. Is it the restaurant? The wedding? Please Sy - " another inhalation, an open mouthed kiss to the top of his head – "just tell me what I can do to help make it better."

And Syed wants to say something. He wants to open his mouth and confess everything – the money, the lying, the cheating, the stealing, every single dirty rotten thing that is eating him up inside – but he can't. It's that softness in Christian's voice; the movement of fingers through his hair; the rising chest beneath his hand; everything, every stupid beautiful little thing that reminds how absolutely, thoroughly, painfully he loves this man.

And every bit of that love wraps itself like a protective shield around the truth – of all the pressures he has ever had on his shoulders, by other people and by himself, nothing has ever quite eclipsed the feeling of wanting to make the people he loves proud of him. And he loves Christian. He loves him so, so much. And Christian is so proud of him, all the time, that tiny twinkling of paternal pride that should probably have been a bit creepy (considering the very non-fatherly relationship he had with him) if it didn't feel so _right _most of the time.

He can't shatter that. He doesn't want to.

So he does something that he trained himself to do a very long time ago; something that is seared into his blood, sometimes buried but always there, creeping back to the surface without warning.

He lies.

"It's just this whole thing with the restaurant; it's nothing I can't sort out. I'm just stressed, that's all, but I can handle it – " he sits up, feigning nonchalance as he pulls off his top and kicks off his trousers, before shuffling under the covers to resume his position; only this time he's closer, burrowing deeper against Christian's flesh with every pang of guilt that shoots through him, as if he can muffle the lie with his skin. "I can do it. It's fine."

Christian makes a little noise, a sceptical noise; not scepticism about the cause of the stress, but scepticism over just how 'fine' it might be. Syed doesn't know whether to feel pleased or distraught as he realises that his lie has held. He clings on tightly as Christian pulls him closer, grasping at a reassurance that, whilst warmly given and eagerly taken, is weakened by the lie at its foundation.

_I could say so much more_ – he thinks, as he wraps his arms around Christian, nuzzling into his chest as if burrowing away from reality – _if only I loved you less._

xx

**Fin**

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_This is something that I put together very quickly on the basis of a very wild muse. I don't know what I think of it - it's a bit messy, but I wanted it to feel like the inside of Syed's head, and I hope I achieved that. Thank you for reading, I hope you enjoyed, and if you have any comments please don't hesitate to leave them!_


End file.
